Immeasurable
by Felicia
Summary: M/R romance.....sorry, I don't want to give away any more


Immeasurable  
  
By Felicia Ferguson  
  
Rating: PG  
  
Disclaimer: In my dreams.  
  
Spoilers: Let's play, "Where's the spoiler?" See if you can find  
"Stranded," "Cave of Fear," "Salvation," "Out of Time," and "An Eye for an  
Eye."  
  
  
Author's Note: This comes from Roxton's favorite word (or at least hiavorite word from "Into the Fire"): "immeasurably."  
  
1/1  
  
How does one measure a man? By the depths of his wallet, the height of hitature or the breadth of his shoulders?  
  
Here was John Roxton, a man who cared little for his own safety, and yet,  
would risk everything to rescue a woman whom he hated. Or, at least, ias supposed he hated. As the months wore on and the bickering increased,  
so did the care that could be measured in the underlying tone of the words,  
in the looks that were traded when no one was thought to be watching.  
  
She had told him not to make her his personal crusade, but, stubborn mahat he was, he did not listen and, instead, continued to push her foore. His questions, unlike Malone's, probed her past, forcing memorieong hidden under woolen cloaks to materialize unbidden and sit as somort of uninvited guest in her mind. When their sparring turned to gentllirting, she began to see him as more than a hunter and adventurer. Had assumed the role of her protector. Self-appointed and though highlnnecessary in her opinion, as they evaded raptors and head hunters alike,  
she had come to rely on him and welcomed the knowledge that he was alwaynly few feet away with rifle or pistol at hand.  
  
But slowly, her protector became something more; something she couldn'ategorize. He was more than a friend though not yet a lover, for somamn thing or another always seemed to interrupt them moments before theiips could even meet. He was a confidant -- or at least as much as should allow. But mostly, he was "John."  
  
He was one of the few men who dared to scale the wall she had sethodically constructed around her heart and for no other reason thaecause he cared about her. About Marguerite, the woman. Not Marguerite,  
the heiress, nor Marguerite, the wanton. Though sometimes she had heoubts about the latter.  
  
He offered to talk, and shared his own guilt, but there were some thinghat were too painful, too buried, to be examined in any sort of situation.  
Subconsciously, she feared his reaction when he realized the truths thaonstituted Marguerite Krux. But as bits and pieces of her soul were laiare, he seemed to absorb them and, instead of condemning her, he loved hell the more.  
  
Having never known such an open and forgiving love, she was often caughff-guard and fell back into her comfortable role as antagonizer. Beratinnd snapping at him, never understanding that each word, each curse,  
hurtful though it may be, merely solidified his love for her. He knew shossessed secrets, most of which she was likely never to reveal, and yet,  
he recognized something inside her, something he had seen many timeefore. She was wounded, and every wounded animal, when cornered, woulash out even at the most gentle of touches.  
  
He understood her as probably no one ever had. She was selfish and self-  
centered, yes, but he saw through the layers and found the real womanderneath. Though she would never admit it, he had given her a gift. Had reintroduced her to herself, someone she had long ago lost touch witn the desperate battle of survival. And, along the way, he taught heore than Oxford ever could. Through daily contact and in small doses, shiscovered the true definition of love, in all its many variations.  
  
To measure a man like John Roxton would take years. For it would take ull eight months at least just to pass the more irritating aspects of hiersonality. And then it would take longer still to adequately describhe love that she felt in his gaze and in his touch. The way his voicould deepen when they were alone. The surprising softness of his lipgainst hers. The feel of her heart melting when he flashed that crookemile. The ripples that flew over her skin at the rough tones of hiaugh.  
  
Indeed, how could one measure a man such as he? By the depth of his honor,  
the height of his character or the breadth of his love? It is all ohese and none of these; for to Marguerite, he is immeasurable. 


End file.
